


The glory hole story that does not deserve a title

by Giveusakiss4132



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Glory Hole, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rugby, SO GAY, Top John Watson, Unilock, gay baby, gay flower petal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/pseuds/Giveusakiss4132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I should stay off tumblr. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock overhears John being interested in Glory Holes. </p>
<p>This is garbage I'm sorry Jesus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The glory hole story that does not deserve a title

“a springtime smelling  
muscular torso so sweet  
licking sweat off abs” 

Sherlock doodled casually, waiting on the clock. This terms required creative poetry classes were nearly finished, and Sherlock had never been so conflicted in his life. On the one hand, Sherlock had discovered his normally infallible and obedient brain balked in horror every time he tried to compose any prose whatsoever, and no amount of studying helped. On the other hand, John Watson had chosen to grace this class with his presence. 

 

He was blonde haired and blue eyed and a tad short. He was loud and looked good in rugby shorts and didn’t laugh at Sherlock, not even once. 

 

Not even the time Seb Wilkes put too much vodka in his drink and he had passed out and Seb drew a penis in glitter pen on his cheek. No, John Watson had handed him a bottle of nail varnish remover and a rag and when Sherlock had just stared at him, John Watson took Sherlock’s chin in his tiny callused hands and wiped his face free of glittery cock. 

 

John Watson was a marvel. 

 

“It’s supposed to be a sonnet, you know,” Victor drawled, looking over his shoulder. 

 

“You know how I feel about iambic pentameter,” Sherlock muttered, and cupped his arm around his paper in a shield. 

 

“Eyes on your own work!” Professor Jolly called cheerfully. “For Gods sakes Trevor, if you copy off Holmes you deserve the Fail.”

 

The class snickered. Reading the work aloud was quite possibly the worst part of this class. 

 

John Watson did not snicker. Not even a smile. Sherlock beamed, besotted. 

 

******

 

Sherlock could feel the grey matter of his brain entropy and die, leaking out his ears. He was, for a brief moment, furiously jealous of his brain. He’d like to die, if only to get out of this conversation. Victor had dragged him to a party, because apparently one cannot go their entire freshmen year and only attend one party, even if one had a cock drawn on their face at the last one. Sherlock watched his drink like a hawk. 

 

“So I said-” a break for cackling, dull, effected, stumbling. Seb isn’t nearly as drunk as he’s making out to be,- “I said HA! that he couldn’t even get arse in a glory hole.” The rest of the idiots snickered and guffawed and snorted like the animals they were. John giggled, and it was precious and perfect. Sherlock sighed. 

 

“Heh, that’s not even a real thing, mate,” some nameless idiot in white and blue contradicted. 

 

“No, no it is. There’s one in the upstairs stalls in the chem building,” Another said. 

 

“Not that I’d stick my dick in a hole, really. God knows,” Seb said, adding a shiver.

 John raised a brow. “The chem building eh?” 

 

Sherlock excused himself. 

 

****

 

“Sherlock Holmes that is disgusting,” Victor hissed, grabbing his arm just as he exited the building. 

 

Sherlock shifted guiltily. “But-”

 

“No. No Sherlock. It’s bad. It’s a bad thing to do. You do not sit in a bathroom stall with an open mouth. This is a thing that is not okay,” Victor explained patiently. 

 

“But I love him,” Sherlock said, in a small voice.

 

“No, you don’t. You love his stomach and the fact that he’s a decent person.” Victor stroked his hair. “There’s wee on those floors, Sherlock. Do you really want to do that to your trousers?”

 

A small, filthy part of him screamed yes but he shook his head dutifully. 

 

“Right. You okay to get home?” Victor eyed the party and the promising looks he was getting from the tarted up red head in the corner.

 

“Pfft,” Sherlock waved him off dismissively. 

 

Once Victor was out of site, Sherlock took off to the chem building. 

 

*****

 

Sherlock finished off the last of his chocolate, sitting on a toilet lid, lowest of the low. Here he was, nineteen years old, never been kissed outside of Aunt Marie-upsetting, sitting in a gents in the chemistry building, looking longingly at the hole drilled in the side of the stall, hoping for John Watson to stick his cock in it. 

 

Truly, this was sad. He’d been here for nearly an hour, and not even a foot step. 

 

There was wee on the floor. 

 

Sherlock drooped. 

 

There was a small noise and then a door opening. Sherlock forced himself still. The lights came on, dimly. Stall doors opened, but the feet kept moving. There was a soft shuffle shuffle, right foot leading. John’s walking pattern, which isn’t pathetic, it’s observant! The blue and white rugby shoes were mud caked but well taken care of. Sherlock’s breath hitched. 

 

The door to the connecting stall opened, and there was a shuddery breath. “Um, hello?”

 

Sherlock froze in terror.

 

“Um, look, I know someones in there, and um. God. Ha. Um if you don’t want to show your face or something, that’s fine. Um, knock once for yes, twice for no? Alright?”

 

Sherlock knocked once, terrified. 

 

“Oh my God. Okay. Yeah, that’s brilliant. Um thanks for that. Right, you know what this hole is, then?” Sherlock knocked once again. 

 

“Er, are you a bloke or a girl? Once for bloke, and so on...”

 

Sherlock knocked once, very softly. John let out a soft sigh. “Perfect. Yeah, that’s um, that’s good. That’s actually really lovely. Um, right. God, this shouldn’t be hot but it really- I’m really. Jesus, I could pop, honestly. Look, um do you want-” Sherlock knocked once, hard. 

 

“Oh my God,” John repeated. “Christ there’s wee on the floor, hold on, don’t kneel down yeah? Not that you have to kneel down! Jesus.” John’s lovely rugby jacket slipped under the stall divider, and spread out neatly on the floor. “That’s better then?” Sherlock knocked, and melted. 

 

His knees hit the floor of their own volition, and he heard an unzipping noise. 

 

“Okay, okay God,” John muttered and slowly pushed his cock through the hole. The hole, wide as it was, barely allowed him to fit. Sherlock whimpered. 

 

“Please don’t bite,” John asked tenuously. Sherlock laughed, softly, and stuck out his tongue. He gave a tentative lick to the underside of John’s cock, and was rewarded with the best sound he’d ever heard in his short life. He did it again, to the same results. When he put the head into his mouth, John Watson swore, and then called him lovely boy. Sherlock had to open his fly and shove his trousers down to his knees, as best he could. 

 

He sucked and tongued and swallowed around John as best he could, dizzy with it. 

 

“Again,” John demanded, when Sherlock took a little too much and gagged. “Do it again.” Sherlock leaned forward obediently as far as he could and then pushed a little farther than that, and felt his throat seize up. He gagged and John pounded once on the divider, hard, with both fists. 

 

“Fuck, yes. That, do it again, choke on it. Go on sweetheart, choke on it,” John urged, and Sherlock whimpered and hummed around him, and choked, obligingly. 

 

“Are you touching yourself? Go on, what do you like?” John asked, breathless. Sherlock pumped his own cock, slowly. 

 

“Gonna come with me, darling?” John crooned, and shoved himself forward as best he could, gagging Sherlock.

 

Sherlock gave a muffled groan, and shook his head and tapped twice. Not from just stroking. He couldn’t. He needed more. 

 

He was desperate, and scrabbled in his pockets, tongue licking haphazardly at John. He found a chap stick, slightly melted from the heat of his body, and sucked John’s head as he smoothed the melted coconut oil and wax over his fingers. When he reached behind him and touched his hole, his entire body trembled and he moaned into John, who returned the sound. 

 

He stroked over his hole impatiently and shoved a finger inside. There was a slight burn and his eyes fluttered shut softly, and he made a needy noise. “Sweetheart, sweetheart, what are you doing? God you’re making me crazy.” John’s voice was rough, and he could feel his pulse against his tongue. Sherlock added a second finger and spread them in a scissoring motion. A third was added as soon as he could stand it, and he knocked twice, standing up. 

 

“What, what’s wrong?” John sounded frantic, but Sherlock just knocked twice again, and turned around, commanding his soul to God, he spread his cheeks and lined up with John’s cock, rubbing against it firmly. 

 

“Oh fuck. Oh my fucking God. You are perfect. You are the most perfect fucking lad in the universe and I don’t even care if you look like a troll, this is still going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” John babbled. He withdrew his cock and said “come here, sweetheart. Go on, come here,” and Sherlock pressed his arse against the hole. 

“Oh God. Okay, we can’t, we can’t if you aren’t ready, I’ll hurt you.” Sherlock tossed the chap stick over the stall door and heard John whoop in surprise and then delight. A finger stroked over Sherlock’s arse, and he cried out. 

 

“Oh lovely boy. You prepped for me. Sweet thing, lovely thing. That’s right. What do you need?” The smell of coconut oil grew stronger as John slicked his cock with the rest of the chap stick. “You need my cock?” Sherlock knocked once, and whimpered. 

 

“Ask nicely.” John demanded, and Sherlock broke his own rule, and whispered please.

 

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll give it to you,” John muttered, almost to himself, and lined up and pushed. 

 

Sherlock made a shocked sound and bit his hand. He didn’t expect to feel like this. So full. 

 

Sherlock pushed back after a moment, greedily. 

 

John let out a noise unlike any other, and thrust forward. 

 

Sherlock was dizzy with pleasure, making frantic, soft noises. “Tilt up sweetheart, just arch your back for me. Shit, I wish I could see you. God, beautiful thing. Lovely thing. Go on, tilt that pretty arse up for me, let me make you feel good.” John instructed. 

 

And oh- oh. Clearly John was a homosexual genius, because Sherlock had spent ages looking for and failing to find his prostate, only getting to experience the lovely full-ish, almost painful burn of his own fingers always searching, but with a few brief instructions John had managed to find it, and Sherlock moaned helplessly and pushed back as hard as he could. 

 

“Oh shit, are you close?” a knock, frantic answered John’s question. 

 

“Can I- I swear to God I’m clean, and I will, I swear I’ll pull out, but can I come?” John thrusted unevenly. “Can I come in you, sweet boy? I swear you’ll be okay. I promise,” John pleaded. 

 

Sherlock knocked once, no hesitation. 

 

It was cause and effect after that. John let go, really let go, and pumped into Sherlock punishingly. Ten strokes later, he was finished, spilling into Sherlock, who came in streaks against the stall door. 

 

John slumped against his own stall door, and withdrew. They both panted, in tandem. 

 

“God,” John said breathless. “That was- honestly, thank you. You are, um. You are a right and proper lad, I swear it. Holy shit.” Sherlock giggled softly, and John found himself laughing as well. 

 

“Can I? Can I see you? I swear, I’ll be happy. I honestly, can I?” John begged, and Sherlock’s heart hammered against his chest but it was the last day of classes and Sherlock could go home and hide for two months if he needed to, or transfer, or throw himself off a building or oh Lord, he was going to do it. 

 

He knocked once. Then he opened the door, to the sight of a disheveled, sweaty, blissful rugby player. Relief swam across John’s face. 

 

“Oh hi. Oh you are just, just unreasonably attractive. You’re the fit bloke from poetry class. I mean, yeah. You are just really, really very good looking. Did you know? I mean, the lighting is for shit here but yeah. Look at you, beautiful thing.” Sherlock blushed. “Oh God, you’ve um. Heh. You’ve got a bit of cock on your cheek,” John blabbered, and reached up and wiped the precum off of Sherlock’s cheek. 

 

Sherlock stared at him adoringly. “That’s the first words you ever said to me,” he whispered, trembling. 

 

John looked confused for a moment, before he remembered. “Oh yeah. The glitter cock. Seb’s a wanker. Jesus. Shit. I mean, really you are just... really very fit. Really well done, looks wise. Good for you. God, can I just kiss you please, because I’m going to keep talking if I don’t, and I’m really very interested in your lips.” Sherlock reached behind him to the closed stall door, and knocked. Once.


End file.
